3.24.2014

This seasonSmall Press Traffic is celebrating its 40th Anniversary through a series of readings curated by former Small Press Traffic directors.

The festivities began on Sunday March 10th, curated by Jocelyn Saidenberg (Director of SPT from 1999-2000), who invited us to enjoy the work of three powerful women writers: Beth Murray (via telephone), Evelyn Reilly, andRenee Gladman .

Jocelyn Saidenberg

Somehow, in the midst of the frenzy of end-of-quarter grading, and in the season of awaiting news from College Admissions Departments for my daughter, I've misplaced my notebook with all my notes! So, for this post, I'm flying on the magic carpet of memory only folks!

Beth Murray is living near Yosemite these days. Jocelyn arranged for Beth to read via phone and speaker, but the connection kept breaking up. We heard a tiny slice of some of Cancer Angel, a full length manuscript. Beth has been kind enough to let me post some of it here. This is a small portion of a section entitled "Vile."

Beth Murray

Fabric

here
in the chest who will instruct?

in
the branches who will locate motions?

however
swift or slow,

several
wheels turning trust

brass
instruments blowing luck,

strings
plucking faith have

inherited
terrible violence around which

numbness
injects unnoticed—

tumors
too can be circles,

the
path into curiosity, to ask

who are you?

sit
quietly for what arises,

when
the recesses of mind pop up,

there
is a trembling in the bones in these moments

draw
attention to this spot so that

other
wayfarers know to

stop
here, so that other

travelers
holding offerings

are
moved to give,

light
dimming in what has fallen

tumor says,

I
grow here to make bigger this

we
are traveling

taking
the thoughts back

‘the
entire planet’ we say in our blessings

but
inside the twitching there is no

boundary
your gaze catches mine and we fall asleep knowing

until
looking too closely

the
space becomes difficult to see

the
feeling of feeling is not the story of what happened

but
the fabric that called you to your birth,

that
decided you would meetand

look
with love beyond compromise –

who
are you without years of counting?

who
are you without breathing in the habitual direction?

waking
to check–

the
tumors are a voice speaking

the
message of their own dissolving

and
each message continues until

the
waters of the tide fall in on it

under
the continuity that cannot be

numbered
upon which the bowl

is
placed empty and all eat – in that continuity the blessing

that
there will be others or there are others

blinking
in the sunlight,

through
the stillness of the diamond shapes

vibrating
past orchestras and the witness of winds –

no
more they shall blow you

Tightening

I
first took lamb-soft leave,

my
lungs tightening from

these
years of interruption tethering

the
loss of children,

the
passing of my brother,

the
leaving of lovers,

releasing
the oh well,

to
come to we require another—

do
not let your desires run down,

as
the body will clock it

a
year or many later reading

the
moment of abandoning desire

or
accepting obstruction –

the
end of the entire hallelujah, not a celebrated slicing

pomegranate,
bitter food of winter’s darkness:

I
will not carry forward these

dark
secrets –

ask
yourself where is the space?

the
freedom, the light

let
yourself into the lit room

find
the others who have sought the light

tumor says,

I grow here to make bigger

the
struggling part

when
the voice is not big enough

grow
in the throat to augment

before
how hiding

want
something else and cannot

in
my dream house,

barely
able to lift my arm

tumor says,

I
make bigger your lip

to
hide the size of your teeth

so
Olympian

under
pressure of expectation

tumor says,

when loved ones are troubled

I
grow as breast to nurture them

Vile

my
only hope Adriamyacin they said -

syringe
of vile, red liquid in

sealed
manila envelope with doctor’s orders, the nurse

opens
in front of me, she will be paid a few dollars to sit on my bedside and

place
her thumb on the syringe, slowly press, she says

“you
should not see it move”

faster
would strip my veins,

she
explains they call this “pushing”

she
will be paid a few dollars to sit slowly pushing

he
will be paid $15,000 for signing the vile red liquid order,

starts
every woman with breast tumors as large as mine on vile red liquid,

it
takes much longer for her gloved hand to

patiently
hold the syringe

the
first time I’m curious, watch the syringe,

feel
for some change in my blood

is
it cold, metallic?

fifteen
minutes later syringe empties, she tosses it in toxic waste bin

I
get up to pee, wheeling my IV stand with me

pee
is red – it’s gone in –

the
next day pee stings

knows
corroding, knows killing cells

this
will kill only the fast growing ones they say

so
stomach lining, so hair, so tumor –

within
a month hair is falling

each
morning black strands on the pillow

satin
pillows my femme friend says

satin
pulls hair the least

my
mother sends two satin pillowcases

Devatara
shows me satin magnetized blanket

with
bright yellow Buddha toward which to direct

cancer
pulled from my breast out fingers send to Buddha

Buddha-magnets
will absorb, neutralize

blanket
costs $150, it’s the

size
of a crib blanket for a toddler who will not suckle here

satin
pillows from mom are free

after
first chemo cannot eat for days

wait
for the day I can get into the water

swim
in fishy, toxic bay to clear my head

fingers
slip into the water with each stroke

send
cancer out my arm into the water

Devatara
says you must only use blanket to absorb it

I
think, “the sea is big enough”

sea
will neutralize –

next
time sight of red syringe turns my stomach

I
cannot look, belly reels with fatigue and dying cells

red
syringe flashes—

I look forward to more of Beth's work.

Evelyn Reilly,photo courtesy of Kevin Killian

Next up Evelyn Reilly read excerpts from Styrofoam and Apocalypso, both from Roof Books. Reilly's reading was lively, and in particular, I was struck by how much her writing is studded with language of our moment though it is also intertwined with a diction attached to the past such as in her references to Browning's "Childe Harold to the Dark Tower Came." Reilly's work is interested in the environmental, technology, the internet, science; she revels in linguistic play. Here's an excerpt from "Styrofoam," pulled from her website here.

from Styrofoam

Answer:Styrofoam deathlessnessQuestion:How long does it take?& all the time singing in my throat little dead Greek ladyin your eternity.saddle[hat: 59% Acrylic 41% Modacrylic[ornamental trim: 24% Polyvinyl 76% Polyamideholding a vial enwrappedEnter: 8,9,13,14,17-ethynyl-13-methyl-7,8,9,11,12,14,15,16-octahydro-cyclopenta-diol(aka environmental sources of hormonal activity(side effects include tenderness, dizzinessand aberrations of the vision(oh please just pass the passout juice now!)Answer: It is a misconception that materialsbiodegrade in a meaningful timeframeAnswer: Thought to be composters landfillsare actually vast mummifiersof wasteand waste’s companions lo stunning all-colorheap-like & manifold.offoam 1 : a mass of fine bubbles on the surface of a liquid2 : a light cellular material resulting from the introductionof gas during manufacture 3 : frothy saliva4 : the SEA(lit.)which can be molded into almost anything& cousin to.thingsartistic:Kristen JA low oven and a watchful eye turns bitsof used plastic meat trays into keychain ornaments.Monica TSoft and satisfying for infant teething if you first freeze.posted 10/11/2007 at thriftyfun.comhosted by FPPG the Foodservice Plastic Packaging GroupAll this.formationanddeformation& barely able to see seafor the full poem visit Evelyn's website.

Lastly, Evelyn read from Apocalypso, a book that continues her linguistic revelries, cast in shadow and humor, as in this piece, briefly excerpted here:

Apocalypso: A Comedy

And I became the Alpha
and the Omega

and my little dog too

Come and I'll show you what onceshall have taken place after this

forever and ever and ever, etc.

at which I took my glue gun
from its hipster holster

and twenty-four elders
began to sing:

Eight swimming creatures covered with eyes (state of the oceans, check)Sixteen birds with sinister wings (state of the flyways, checkers)

But even the end of evolve, luv? (I was down with the animals)

Then the twenty-four fell down:
clad in white garments
and wearing golden crowns

(this is the revised standard
sedition edition chapter four
verses one through ten

in which enumeration equals

a technique of calm

3 2 1 we are calm

So many pretty revels
in these devastation pictures

head as mollusk shell
whale with insect tail

and a twig become
a tiny musician
fingering a stringy box

(see Fall of the Rebel Angels
by Pieter Bruegel)

as I scan
my es-cat-a-logue

covering that part of language
concerned with reckoning
and the density destiny
of survivor species

For he poured his bowls of wrath on the earth
and a great star fell onto the rivers

For more, check out Evelyn's book:

Next up was Renee Gladman. In her intro, Jocelyn referenced the SPT African American experimental literature conference she, Renee, and Giovanni Singleton worked on in the spring of 2000, citing it as her first conference ever and one of her seminal experiences while at Small Press Traffic.

Renee and Kevin Killian at ATA
photo by Aja Duncan

Reneeread from the third book in her The Ravickians series--Ana Patova Crosses a Bridge, newly out from the Dorothy Project, and then later from a manuscript in progress, a book of essays, called Calamities, because, Renee said, they fail.

I confess not having yet read the previous Ravickian books. EventFactory, The Ravickians, and now, Ana Patova Crosses a Bridge, areamong many books awaiting time and space. I promise to clear the decks for them this summer as I was simply blown away by Renee's reading. I found her language to be roomy, roamy, expansive, deeply satisfying in its careful attention to thinking and thinking about thinking and living in writing, and doing it in a way that feels deeply important, weighty, enigmatic. Examples will make clear what I as of yet cannot:

from Ana Patova:

I wrote this book in a circular home a hill, overlooking the city, which roams while we are sleeping; I wrote it in a café with my friends; I wrote it as I looked for hidden streets, while sitting in desolate and lush spaces. I wanted to say language leaves a trace, makes a simultaneous trail, of us and of the crisis. My walking leaves a trace, also my saying I have walked. And, this is important, because, though these marks do not render precisely the picture of our crisis, they do show where there are still people. The day fills up with monuments, and the book attempts to erect a fence around them. The book wishes to end a crisis by sheer fact of existing. But, rather than a History, the book becomes an index. It shuffles our bewilderment. It does not tell our story. It cannot do that. Nevertheless, it opens toward you. Tij.

--Ana Patova
Ravicka

Meanwhile, the eye witnesses the story
of what we were when we happened,
when the last person left and the first
person returned as if the same moment,
as if the inhale began in the exhale, that
first person leaving, who belonged to all
of us, and what we became in his
leaving: our reaching for our cups. We
were holding space and making space
through stillness, looking for structures
to reflect what we were seeing, which
was nothing. I wrote about buildings,
and for the first part of the crisis this
kept me occupied. I was holed up in my
home. I slept on the books I wrote, which
I'd glued between board and given
unassuming titles, like Slow and Tired, but
these books were my life's work; I knew
once I'd finished them I would never
write again; rather, I would not need to
write or live or sleep, it felt like. When I
changed my mind about this, when I
changed my mind--but, it was me and it
was L and it was Z. and B., and we were
all high on coffee and sometimes pills,
waiting for some storm to come, some
document from abroad.

I am eager for Gladman to publish Calamities. They too were thrilling and deeply satisfying. Visit Floor to read an excerpt. Gladman gave a talk "The Sentence as a Space for Living:Prose Architecture" as part of the University of California's Holloway Reading Series on March 13th that I did not learn about until after the fact. This is regrettable as I have a feeling I might have swooned. Hopefully, the Holloway Series folks will post a link on youtube soon! I can't wait.